


Dead Flower Waltz

by NervousOtaku



Category: Original Work
Genre: Familiars, Fantasy, LGBTQ Characters, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Symbolism, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22902877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku
Summary: Celandine would never forget the night her mothers were murdered. But as her world crumbles around her, a stranger appears declaring her already to be a part of his.Rating subject to change. Tags will be updated as the story progresses. Updates will be slow and sporadic.





	1. Six of Cups, the Tower, and Ten of Swords

Celandine loved her mothers. Everyone did. How could they not? Grace and Vervain were good, kind women, who helped and took care of everyone. Celandine grew up watching Vervain perform readings of all sorts for people—love and success, travel and fortune, through cards and dice, bones and palm-lines. She grew up with the smell of potions and pills in the air as Grace brewed up a new batch of various cures and preventatives—for backaches and flagging vision, for topics she was too young for and issues she didn’t understand even when told, in bottles and jars, pouches and boxes. She may have been young, but both her mothers had told her that she was already very good at magic herself. That she came from two long lines of magic crafters and users, and so there was innate magic, untapped reserves deep within her. Celandine didn’t understand completely, but she had known her mothers were telling her she was special and strong.

But then came the day when Vervain pulled Grace aside while she was working. The two spoke outside, in the garden, in hushed whispers that Celadine couldn’t hear. Grace’s canine familiar Anuki stood at the door, ears pricked and tail wagging as she prevented Celandine from listening in. So instead Celandine had gone over to Vervain’s desk and taken a peek at the daily reading for the home. She was still little, and the meaning of most of the cards escaped her, but she knew what some of them meant. Clambering up onto her mother’s chair, she was delighted to find a simple three-card spread—the past, the present, and the future. No complex spreads with questions and answers that were all vague and above her head. Celandine looked over what there was, trying to recall the meaning of each card.

The first was the Six of Cups. Then there was the Tower. And finally, there was the Ten of Swords. All of them were upright, which meant it would be easier to recall the meanings, since she wouldn’t have to worry about pesky inversions. Biting her lip, Celandine tried to recall what each card represented. She thought the Six of Cups was happy. So the day would start off happy, right? It meant the house was happy? That was good. Next was the Tower, though, and even if she didn’t have all the cards memorized Celandine knew the Tower was often an ill omen. It represented tragedy and calamity, after all, which was a scary thought, the happy home having an accident. But the little girl knew accidents didn’t always have unhappy endings. If only she could remember what the Ten of Swords meant, maybe she could figure out if the daily reading her mother did had a happy ending. It felt like it should’ve been obvious, given the prone masculine figure with the blades stuck into his back, but Vervain had always taught her not to take the cards at face value. Never judge a book by it’s cover or a card by it’s picture, her mother had instructed.

After a while spent staring, Celandine decided to go find her own deck. It was one designed to help beginners learn, so maybe she could do her own reading. Anuki watched from the back door as the girl ran across the house to her room.

Finding the deck of cards, Celandine carefully shuffled the cards without looking at any of them, the way her mother had taught her. It was sloppy despite her best efforts, cards continually trying to escape her small and inexperienced hands. But eventually she had them all shuffled, and she proceeded to cut the deck twice, dividing it into three stacks. She just wanted a simple three-card spread, for the flow of time relating to her and her family. Taking a moment, Celandine closed her eyes and reached out with a hand. Her fingers twitched, and she brought her hand down. Opening her eyes, she drew three cards from the stack she’d selected, carefully arranging them face-down on the floor before her.

With a deep breath, she flipped over the first card.

The Tower stared up at her, almost mockingly. Throat tight, the little girl flipped over the next card, finding Death. That eased her worries somewhat, since Death represented change. A change in the situation was good, after all. But it could easily be a change for the worse. Chewing on her lip, Celandine looked to the last card. She couldn’t help but hesitate a little before flipping it over. The Six of Swords greeted her. Fumbling for the meaning in her memory, she tipped her head to read the careful script that flowed around the edges of the card.

Grief, it told her, moving on despite loss, progressing despite hardship. Moving on to better places.

That didn’t soothe her concerns at all.

Celandine would remember those two readings for the rest of her life, would remember that day for the rest of her life.

The Tower began to claim everything she had ever known that night, waking her from her slumber not long after she’d been put to bed. Anuki was howling outside, her mothers running to and fro across the house. Celandine heard a harsh yelp, and saw Grace stumble over her feet while clutching her head at the same time. Celandine knew, instinctively, despite her young age, that Anuki had just been killed.

As a rough voice began to yell, barking orders and demands, Vervain scooped Celandine up and handed her to Grace.

“Go on,” Vervain instructed, “Out the back. I’ll take care of them.”

Grace nodded, and Vervain spared a moment to kiss them. A tender one to Grace’s lips, and a gentle one to Celandine’s forehead. “I love you, baby. I love you more than anyone can possibly understand.” the woman whispered in a soft tone before straightening up and leaving the house.

“Mama…!” Celandine tried to plead, but Grace shushed her, already turning towards the back door. Celandine could see the smears of blood above her mother’s lips—the loss of Anuki was already taking a toll on Grace, though she was doing a good job of not showing it. “Mommy, please, we can’t leave her…!”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Grace murmured, cradling her close, “Just don’t look back.”

But doing so was impossible. As Grace slipped out the back door and began to run into the darkness, Celandine peered over the woman’s shoulder. She just wanted to see, to know her mother was okay. She just wanted all the bad readings to be wrong, and for everything to be happy.

Instead, she watched as several soldiers cut Vervain down, the woman’s purple dress torn and staining dark in the torchlight. She watched as the garden of the cottage she called home withered and died with their master, watched the house begin to crumble and decay as the family that lived there broke and fled. Her throat grew too tight to speak, to cry out, and her eyes stung painfully as she clung to Grace. The sharp inhale must’ve given her away to her mother, though, because Grace began to breathe, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Celandine was unable to speak, only stare with wide eyes as the soldiers began to yell, began to give chase. Tears fell down her face, shockingly hot as the rest of her grew too cold to function, only able to cling to her mother. Grace began to murmur in her ear, the words lost to fear and time alike. But the only thing she was able to do was stare in silent horror, watching as the Tower loomed behind them, calamity and disaster dogging their heels with ten swords ready to cut them to ribbons and pin them to the ground like the corpse on the card.

Celandine watched the soldiers gaining on them, torches casting demonic shadows on the men’s faces and at their feet. Her mother was been fast, an excellent runner, but the loss of her familiar was paining her, hampering her ability to escape. If she hadn’t been carrying Celandine, maybe she would’ve been able to do it.

They were approaching the forest when Grace stopped, knelt to the ground and put her down.

“Run,” her mother instructed, “Run through the woods and over the stream, to Syringa’s place. Run, and don’t look back, okay?”

“B-but, Mommy…” Celandine begged, gripping her mother’s shirt in trembling hands. The soldiers were coming fast, but she didn’t want to leave her mother. She didn’t want to lose both of them.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Grace smiled despite all the blood on her face, hugging her close, “I love you. I love you, Mama loves you, we love you more than anyone will ever know, than anyone will ever be able to. But you need to run, okay? Run to your granny’s, and don’t look back.”

They parted, with her mother pushing her towards the forest, and Celandine ran. She randespite the prickly magic that signified Grace casting spells, despite the overwhelming need to stay and make sure her mother would be okay, despite the screeching of metal and thumping of meat hitting the ground. Because Grace had spoken as if Vervain was still alive, so surely that meant everything would be okay. That they could be happy again, could fix the house and replant the garden, could find a new familiar to fill the emptiness Anuki left. Surely, surely, surely.

But then the prickle in the air stopped.

Just shy of the treeline, Celandine stopped and turned back to look. She found her mother, surrounded by smouldering bodies, standing only because she was skewered through with several spears. As Celandine watched, a man on a horse galloped past, his sword flashing in the torchlight. With a spurt of fluid that glittered in the light, Grace’s head fell to the ground like an apple from a tree.

And then the soldiers turned towards her. They were slower, almost leisurely, as she stood unmoving. The man on the horse dismounted and moved over to examine her mother’s body, picking up the head by the long dark hair and turning it this way and that. The soldiers moved towards her, with spears and swords covered in red, and Celandine could see the Tower engulfing everything, with limp forms pinned to it’s walls, even though it was never really there. She finally began moving, crying in fear and despair and turning towards the trees. It was a mad dash towards promised safety, away from the ten swords that had already slain both her mothers and the calamity that was slowly advancing.

One of the men lunged forward. He caught the back of her nightgown as she’d stepped into the forest. But the forest was safe, the forest was sanctuary, always had been and always would be. It didn’t kindly to the soldier trying to drag a little girl away and to her death. Celandine screamed, and the trees moved. Ghosts rose from the ground, whispering and hissing, and the trees began to twist and writhe, everything lashing out at the soldiers who tried to pursue her, covering her escape. Fire sprang up behind her several times, torches lobbed in attempt to start a blaze, but the trees tore up their roots and covered the flames in cool, damp soil.

And Celandine was been alone, save a few small spirits that raced alongside her, urging her onwards. They plucked at her whenever she stumbled, kept her from falling, pushed away the branches and blew away the leaves so her path was always clear. The forest was dark, shadows still demonic even without the wavering torchlight, but the spirits were like shooting stars, lighting everything up in silver and guiding her.

Celandine was terrified. As she crashed into something alive, she screamed, recoiling away in effort to flee again. But something caught her wrist, and she screamed harder as the spirits vanished. She screamed for her mothers, even though she knew neither could hear her any more.

“Oh, poor darling,” a familiar voice said remorsefully, frail arms drawing her into a soft, dark shawl, “Oh my poor, poor darling… look what they’ve done to you, poor flower…”

And then Celandine realized that her grandmother had come for her. She clung to the old woman, wailing in grief and despair, because she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why the soldiers had killed her mothers, the kind and wonderful women who were good to everyone. She didn’t understand why everything had been taken from her, and why she had to be alone. She wanted her mothers. Even as twelve years passed, she still wanted her mothers. She still slept in the same bed as Granny Syringa, still woke up in tears and cold sweats, still flinched away from flame, still longed for the cottage on the outskirts of the city with the garden and big drooly dog-familiar.

The one thing she had gained from that night was a familiar of her own. A rarity, Granny Syrigna told her, because magic-users of their bloodline, of her and Vervain and Celandine, were soothsayers and diviners. Not typically accompanied by familiars. Clearly the influence of Grace’s blood, Granny Syringa would hum.

The familiar, Toldrum, had appeared as the spirits that led her to Granny Syringa had vanished. It was likely that the several small spirits had felt bad for Celandine and had condensed themselves down into a singular form, allowing something from the aether to reach out and evaluate her. That something ended up being Toldrum. Toldrum was a large housecat, with thick black fur peeling away to expose his skeleton on his face, ribcage, and forepaws. Framing his face and the lilac lights in his eye-sockets were six ever-flowering gladiolus—six little swords in the body of a dead animal.

Toldrum and Granny Syringa were poor replacements for her mothers. Celandine loved Granny Syringa, and she couldn’t complain too much about Toldrum’s presence, but she missed her mothers. She missed Vervain flipping cards and rolling dice, missed Grace stirring potions and grinding powders. She missed Anuki’s goofy doggy-grin and the comfort of the family home. Some days it became too much, and she had to leave her grandmother’s home to stand forlornly at the edge of the trees, or she ended up screaming and throwing things at Toldrum in effort to hurt him.

But today, Celandine found herself staring at the Tower and the Ten of Swords again, her grandmother dead on the floor as a strange man knelt over her. The basket in her hands fell to the floor, all the herbs she’d gathered scattering. The man stood, hands outstretched, and in her mind he was lit by the angry orange and red of torchlight, a dripping sword in hand. She recoiled away, screaming in fear and lifting her hands in front of her face as if that would protect her. Toldrum yowled, and the forest writhed around as it sensed her distress and reacted in kind.

“Celandine!” the man yelled over the rumble of magic as the trees bent to attack and Toldrum’s back erupted in brambles. “Celandine, it’s me! Your brother!”


	2. Bittersweet Light Of Truth

“Celandine!” the man yelled as the forest and her familiar roared. “Celandine, it’s me! Your brother!”

She heard his words, but they didn’t register. She couldn’t see past her grandmother dead on the floor.

Toldrum’s back had erupted into brambles, thorny vines lashing about and creating a shield. The trees were bending, stooping with branches outstretched like hands. If there was ever a time to get away, it was now, but she couldn’t move. Her feet were frozen, her knees locked. It was like watching Vervain and Grace die all over again, and Celandine felt just as cold now as she did then.

There was a flash of light off of metal, and Toldrum screamed angrily as the brambles were cut. Another neat swing, and the barrier of thorns was gone, the man lunging closer. Celandine screamed again, harsh and ragged, as she stumbled back. But the man caught her easily, ignoring the way the forest was moving and the way her familiar was attacking his exposed back as he dropped his sword.

“No, no!” Celandine pleaded, trying to push at him, but she couldn’t muster any strength, palms slipping against the leather of his armor. He tugged her close, and she could see his grin through the haze of fear blinding her. “Please…!” she cried as his arms wrapped around her.

“I finally found you! Oh, it’s been so long!” he declared, as if he couldn’t hear her pleas. Toldrum yowled, and finally the man recoiled with a shocked yelp. Celandine managed to find herself, and turned to bolt away into the trees, but the stranger caught her wrist. “Wait, don’t run! I know it looks bad, but I promise I want to help! You’re my sister!”

“I don’t have a brother!” she wailed, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried to pry her wrist free.

“You do!” the man insisted, and she saw he had Toldrum in his other hand, held by the scruff of the neck. Her familiar was thrashing angrily, trying to twist and claw at him, but unable to reach. “We share the same mother-- Grace MacParven!”

The name made her stutter and freeze. The forest slowed to a stop, the trees half uprooted but waiting to see how everything played out. Toldrum was apparently unconvinced, still hissing and spitting as he tried to catch the man’s flesh.

“You…” Celandine breathed, blinking away tears and looking at the man properly for the first time.

There were parts of him that looked like her mother, she realized. The color of his hair and the gentle wave it had around his face. Celandine had that too, though she had Vervain’s blonde hair instead of Grace’s dark brown. The steely color of his eyes was wrong, but the shape and set of them was her mother’s. She didn’t recognize the cheeks or jawline. But he had the dusky freckles Grace had possessed, sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, reaching back and up towards his temples. Celandine had never had freckles. She’d always been pale and fair, like Vervain. She had Grace’s sunflower eyes, hazel with blue rims and orange spokes, but everything about her face was apparently closer to how Granny Syringa had looked when she was young. Trying not to expose how desperate she was beginning to feel, Celandine let her gaze go down to the man’s hand on her wrist. If his little fingers were crooked, then he was telling the truth. If his little fingers matched hers, matched Grace’s, then this man was telling the truth and was her brother--

He seemed to realize what she was looking for, because he dropped Toldrum and held out his hand for her to see. Her familiar hit the ground with an undignified squawk, hackles raised and back showing little green seedlings. But Celandine couldn’t bring herself to identify what kind of plant the cat was threatening to grow, staring dumbfounded at the man’s outstretched hand, his fingers spread wide for her inspection.

There were two things that were freezing her. One was the bend of his little finger, the first joint tweaked at an angle that made it look almost broken. The other was a heavy-looking signet ring. Emblazoned on the seal, in shocking detail for the small size, was the royal lindworm.

“... You’re lying…” she breathed, quivering and tugging uselessly against his grip. The trees began to advance again, dragging themselves closer with woody groans.

“It’s one of my fondest memories before she left,” the man said in a gentle voice, “Honestly one of my only memories. But she would crouch down and hold her hands up so I could press mine against them and see how our fingers matched. It was something everyone in her family had, she said, and it marked me as a MacParven.”

He had to be lying. Celandine wanted him to be lying. Because that was what Grace did with her. The tears melting down her face were hot as her mind raced.

“You can tell, can’t you?” the man asked as the first tree grew close enough to reach out and begin grabbing him. “If I’m lying or not?”

As the branches and leaves began to force their way between the two of them, the man let go of her wrist. Shocked by the action, Celandine stammered out, “T-Toldrum!”

Her familiar gave a raspy mew, winding around her legs and staring up with bright eye-lights.

“I-I need a bittersweet!” Celandine forced out, everything building up and choking her throat. She was so lost and confused, she had no clue what was going on and wanted nothing more than to run, but… but she needed this man to be lying. If she ran now, not knowing, she’d never rest again. She’d be plagued by dreams and visions of her mother’s bloodline killing her grandmother, by the Tower wearing Grace’s face.

Toldrum purred, tucking his head down and arching his back. His fur peeled and split, a single, delicate purple flower growing up and out of his body. As the trees enclosed the three of them in a shadowy bubble of leaves, Celandine picked the flower. The man watched from where he was bound up in branches. Fear making her shake, she stepped closer to him, and reached out to touch her fingers to his wrist. The bittersweet shuddered, throwing out roots and winding them around his hand. The magic gave a soft sigh, a tiny light coming to life in the flower’s petals to show that it was ready.

“... Wh-what’s your name…?” Celandine stammered, backing up as far as she could. Toldrum placed himself between her and the stranger, jaw parted as if to peel back nonexistent lips.

The man stared at the flower for a moment before answering, “Rowan duKron.”

The flower glowed brighter, twisting and throwing out new leaves. The man made a curious noise, eyes widening in a way that reminded Celandine too much of how she used to watch her mothers work.

But worse than that, he was telling the truth. And if he was duKron, then he was royal.

“Why did you kill Granny?” she asked in an upset warble, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. The trees bent a few twigs to pat at her head and shoulders.

“The old woman?” the royal replied, gaze going back to her. “I didn’t. She was dead when I got here. I know how it looked, but I was trying to see if I could help, I promise.”

The shaded bubble made by the trees began to light up with soft purple light as the bittersweet grew a couple new buds. It was starting to droop under it’s own weight, even though Celandine had only asked two questions. Was this man just radiating that much honesty, that the plant was feeding on it? She hoped not. If he was, that implied he really was her brother, and that brought up all sorts of questions about Grace she didn’t want to think about.

Fists clenched, she bit at her lip before quietly asking, “W-was… was your mother… Grace MacParven…?”

“She was.”

The little shelter wasn’t shady anymore. The bittersweet was blooming, eight or nine little purple flowers with extended golden tips all but singing the royal’s honesty.

Toldrum made a soft noise, prompting Celandine to look down at him. Her familiar reared up, planting his paws on her thigh. His gladiolus seemed more vibrant, almost like they were glowing too. The cat threw what looked like a dirty look at the man bound by the trees before kneading at her hip and purring quietly. Lost and not sure how to proceed, she picked her familiar up with trembling hands and hugged him close. There wasn’t exactly anyone else she could hold onto when she got confused or scared, now. Her mothers had been dead for twelve years, and now Granny Syringa was gone too.

What was she supposed to do?

“Celandine.” the man-- Rowan-- said gently, drawing her gaze up and towards him. For the first time, she noticed he was bleeding. How could he not be, even with those leathers Toldrum had been attacking him rather viciously. Dark smears glistened stickily on the leaves around him, colored almost black in the purple light. “If you let me go, I can help give her final rites and bury her-- or however you want to put her to rest. I want to help.”

The bittersweet split, a second stem with brand new buds. He blinked at that, making a soft noise of fascination. She, on the other hand, couldn’t help but wince and whimper at the sight, digging her nails into Toldrum’s fur. The cat sighed in her ear, dragging his dry tongue over her cheek as if that would get rid of her tears.

“I… I don’t want you here…” she whispered.

But he seemed to hear her despite that, replying, “I understand. I do, Celandine, but I wasn’t here for you for years-- I think, if I’d been here back then--”

“No!” she screamed, cutting him off. The tree holding him covered his mouth with a branch, muffling his noise of surprise. “No, you’re lying! I don’t know how, but you’re lying! You’re lying you’re lying you’re lying you have to be lying!”

But he couldn’t be. How could he? There was no tricking a bittersweet. Bittersweets were flowers that represented honesty and truth, and when they were grown from magic, like Toldrum’s plants, they could detect it. They glowed and grew in it’s presence, shriveled and died without it. Celandine wanted him to be lying, but he was telling the truth.

Sobbing, she dropped into a crouch. Toldrum made an unhappy noise at how he was squished up between her stomach and thighs, but didn’t try to squirm away. The petals of his flowers dragged gently across her face, the sweet scent of them filling her lungs as she cried. The trees creaked around them, the glow of the bittersweet growing only more and more radiant. This man, Rowan duKron, was telling the truth. He was her brother. He was her brother, but he was also a royal, and that meant at one point Grace had been in that kind of relationship with a royal, but that felt like something she should have told Celandine. She felt hurt, felt betrayed, felt cold and confused.

Several things suddenly happened all at once.

Toldrum hissed in warning, bristling in her grip. The smell of burning overpowered the smell of gladiolus. The trees cried out. A loud crack sounded.

Celandine’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and she found Rowan standing over her with traces of smoke spiraling off his fingers as the trees shuffled around them. The bittersweet still glowed and grew on his arm, twining around it as if embracing a lover.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the royal said with a soft smile, crouching down so they were eye-level, “I want to help, Celandine.”

“I… I don’t want your help…” she breathed, keeping her eyes on his hands. It made sense that he had magic too. If he was her brother, Grace’s son, then it only made sense. But she hadn’t been expecting it, and the forest couldn’t defend against magic fire. She hadn’t been expecting him to have fire magic and burn the trees.

Rowan reached out. She fell back in effort to get away, and Toldrum swatted at him with a screech. More blood fell, copper joining the smells in the air. She wanted to be sick, reminded too much of that night all those years ago.

But the royal was undeterred, grabbing onto her despite Toldrum’s assault. The trees tried to stop him, but they were too close together and bumped into each other, getting in the way of their own goal. Celandine couldn’t keep from sobbing a bit at Rowan’s touch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, the bittersweet just about it’s own star by this point, “I’m here because I want to keep you safe.”

“No…” she breathed, tears running again. Toldrum was biting and clawing at Rowan’s thigh. He didn’t seem to notice, just manhandled her until he was holding her in a tight hug with her arms pinned at her sides. “St-stop…”

“No one ever told me you existed,” the royal declared, squeezing her enough that she could feel the bittersweet’s roots tangling in her hair, “I had to find out on my own. I spent the last two years trying to find you, the little girl who survived… like hell am I letting anyone take you.”

“Wh-- take me? What do you mean by that…?!” Celandine gasped, trying to create some space between them. Toldrum managed to shove his head between their stomachs, but unless he grew something really impressive from his back it didn’t feel like there was any getting away from this man.

“Our mother divorced my father when I was five years old. They had some sort of falling out, and she left. When I was sixteen, my father fell ill and passed away. I wasn’t old enough to rule, so my uncle took the throne and declared that my mother, a vengeful witch, had cursed my father, and therefore must be executed…” Rowan breathed. The bittersweet was winding its way around them. Celandine couldn’t see with her face stuffed in the man’s shoulder, but she could feel the way it was moving. The trees were unsettled by how bright it was getting, worried their leaves would burn and fall off. Seemingly oblivious to all this, Rowan kept talking, saying, “I never knew she had married again. I never knew. I didn’t care, because she’d left us, left me. But then I found a box of letters in my father’s study, ones she’d sent me but I’d never received, and I had to know. She told me about you, about how she loved you, how she wished we could play together… oh, Celandine…”

Toldrum let out a feral yowl, and Rowan finally recoiled away with a grunt. Celandine hurled herself backwards, the bittersweet tearing and shredding. As she put some much-needed space between them, she could see that Toldrum had put a cactus in the man’s gut.

But again, for some reason, he didn’t seem to care. He was hurt. A lot, by this point. There was more than a little blood staining him, the bittersweet, his clothes, the ground, and the cactus. But Rowan didn’t seem to pay it any mind. Maybe he had a higher tolerance for pain than her. Maybe he really just didn’t care, and it would all come to him later.

Rowan grabbed Toldrum, and she cried out in fear, remembering Anuki and how Grace had been hurt by that loss. But he didn’t hurt the writhing, spitting feline, just held him firmly so no more injuries could be inflicted.

“Celandine,” the royal said as if he didn’t look on death’s door, “Celandine, do you know how you were born?”

She felt her stomach drop.

“No.” she lied through her teeth, the brilliant light of the bittersweet faltering.

Toldrum wriggled away just in time for one of the trees to swat Rowan away.


End file.
